Til The Bitter End
by NYgoldfish54
Summary: Fulton and Portman talk to each other one last time. Set two years after D3. One-shot.


**Title:** 'Til The Bitter End  
**Rating: **PG/PG-13  
**Feedback:** Hit the review button. Go ahead, I dare you.  
**Setting: **about two years after D3.  
**Summary:** Fulton and Portman talk to each other for one last time.  
**Disclaimer: **Disney owns the Ducks. I own nothing that sounds like I shouldn't own it.  
**Story Notes:** I originally wrote this story in 2004 and re-uploaded it to correct some grammar errors on March 18, 2008. No content changes have been made.

* * *

I got the call at four in the morning. It was two months past my seventeenth birthday. I was asleep, warm and comfortable in my bed, and the phone rang. It freaked me out at first…I'm not used to getting calls at four in the morning.

"Fulton Reed, please," said the female voice on the other end of the phone.

"Speaking," I murmured through the sleepy fog in my brain.

I listened quietly to the lady's voice, and before I realized it, I was up, dressing and grabbing the keys to the beat up, old Ford that I bought for a lousy eight hundred dollars. I worked my ass off to earn that money, to buy that car. It needed tons of work to get it to run well, but I didn't mind. That's why I bought it. My dad was a mechanic, and so was my grandfather, and I inherited their love of cars. I've been hanging around garages since I was six and finally got a job at one when I was twelve. I worked in the garage at Eden Hall, my high school, too. That's where I fixed up my truck. Hockey and letting me use the auto garage were the two truly great things the school ever really did for me…

Helping me fix up my truck was my best friend, Dean Portman. More commonly just called Portman, he was also on my hockey team. The Eden Hall Mighty Ducks, a rag-tag scholarship team, or as Rick Riley put it, the affirmative action project. We were all good friends, but Portman was my absolute best buddy. On the ice we were respected as the Bash Brothers, and off the ice we were respected as the Bash Brothers. I played defense and Portman was a winger, but our nickname came from our enforcing skills. Nobody was safe from us on the ice. If you were on the ice with the puck, you were fair game, and you got smashed into the boards. But if you messed with a Duck, whether it was a cheap shot or a flat out fight, you went down even harder.

I didn't like Portman when I first met him at the Junior Goodwill Games. A stuck up jerk from Chicago, we clashed a lot over everything. Our animosity was showing on the ice, and our coach at the time, Gordon Bombay, forced us to room together in the hope that we'd bond.

For the first three days, we were at each other's throats. Fighting, yelling, breaking things. I don't remember a more violent time in my life. We had fist fights…nine of them, in three days, to be precise. Everything in our room ended up with some type of blood stain. The clothing, the sheets, everything. He was slightly bigger than I was, but it was still pretty evenly matched. When confined to our room, we'd beat the hell out of each other. When we weren't confined to our room, I was trying to find a way out of rooming with him.

"Charlie, man, please, swap rooms with me. I _hate _him."

"Are you kidding, Fult? Man, I wouldn't swap rooms with you for the world. And nobody with any common sense would either. That kid – if you can even call him that – is huge. Look what he's done to _you_. You're the only one who even stands a chance!"

Banks, Averman, Guy, and Goldberg all gave similar replies. I didn't even bother to ask Jesse.

So my attempts to swap roommates failed.

I tried faking illness. That worked for about five minutes, until I asked what time practice was.

"If you're too sick to room with Portman, you're too sick to play," Bombay had said.

There was no way in hell I wasn't going to play. So faking illness didn't work out.

Portman happened to have a picture of his dog, so I claimed I was allergic to dogs and Portman's dog-hair infested clothing was making me sneeze.

It turns out Portman's dog lived with Portman's dad on the other side of the Chicago from him and his mom.

Out of ideas, I grudgingly accepted rooming with Portman.

It was not long after our lights out curfew on what I now fondly remember as, "Day 3 of My Captivity" that I decided I liked Portman. I remember it like it was yesterday.

_Shouting match #527 between Portman and I had just ended, and I was lying on my bed. I was really feeling the need for some music. Some loud music. Guns N' Roses, or Metallica, or maybe some AC/DC. And then I heard a very quiet, "Fuck the rules."_

_The light went on, and when I looked up, Portman was moving around. Not long afterwards, there was some very loud Guns N' Roses, Appetite for Destruction to be specific, blasting from our stereo. Our stereo would be confiscated two nights later._

_Portman noticed me looking at him, and I must have looked annoyed, because he said, in a very mocking way, "Oh sorry, did you want to sleep?"_

"_Not especially," I snapped._

"_Oh. What? You don't like Guns N' Roses?" he said, a little less mockingly this time_

"_No, I love Guns N' Roses. I was just thinking about wanting to blast this album when you blasted it," I tried to keep my voice cold, not to let on to the fact that I was actually kind of thrilled that he'd done it._

_He gave this really stupid grin, and seemed like he was trying not to look too pleased with himself. "Really?"_

"_Yeah. Really."_

"_Cool."_

"_So, what's your favorite song off this album?" I asked._

"_I really like 'My Michele.' What about you?"_

"_I'm a big fan of 'Paradise City'. I also like 'Think About You'. But when I'm getting psyched up for a game, I listen to 'Welcome to the Jungle' a lot."  
_

"_No kidding?" Portman asked, smiling for real this time. "When I get psyched up, I listen to 'Welcome to the Jungle' too!"_

We talked about stuff long into the night, even after we were told by Ms. McKay to shut off the stereo.

That day was one of the last times we ever really fought about anything. I mean, we had a few scuffles here and there, disagreements, but nothing major ever again…and definitely no fist fights.

We got into lots of trouble together though.

Once, during tenth grade, we stole our math teacher's laptop computer. We were examining his extensive collection of porn when he found us laughing our asses off in the room next to his. We were suspended six days for stealing…though our sentence was reduced to two when the Dean found out what we were laughing at.

We were using spray paint on Rick Riley's car when were picked up by the cops for vandalism. Okay, they didn't really pick us up. They chased us down four streets and a number of alleys before we lost them. It was just a close call…not that Rick Riley didn't deserve to have anal-rapist spray painted on his Mustang in big purple and red letters. He was an asshole.

But Portman and I always had fun. I helped convince him to ask Julie out. Yeah, he always had the hots for her. He got me a date with this chick in my chemistry class for homecoming sophomore year. It didn't work out with her, but at least he helped me give it a shot.

We got drunk together more than once. He's the only one who can match me shot for shot.

We had big plans, Portman and I. We talked about them all the time. We were going to open a bar, or our own garage. We were going to be partners. We already were partners…not just partners, but in crime. But we were going to have a business. We were like brothers…not just brothers, but Bash Brothers.

I pulled into the parking lot and pulled up the emergency brake. I hopped out of the driver's seat, and walked briskly in through the glass doors.

"Dean Portman," I said to the lady at the desk. "How is he?"

"You're Fulton Reed, I'm presuming?" she asked without looking up.

"Yes."

The lady behind the desk spun her chair around. "Lily," she called to a woman in a nurse's coat about ten feet away. "Fulton Reed is here."

Lily, the lady in the nurse's coat looked up from her clip board, and said, "I think you'd better come with me. Quickly, please."

I followed her down to a bed hidden by curtains. Behind the curtains, was a lot of medical equipment and a bed, with my very best friend lying in it, barely recognizable. He looked like he was barely hanging on to his life.

I looked at the nurse. "What the hell happened to him?"

"He was in an accident," she said in a hushed voice, as if she didn't want him to hear. I remember thinking that her hushed voice was kind of pointless. Portman was many things. Stupid was not one of them. Chances were good that he knew he'd been in an accident.

"Obviously," I snapped, "I mean what were the circumstances of the accident."

"He was walking on the sidewalk when a drunk driver skipped the curb and hit him."

"How fast?" I asked.

"The driver was going at least sixty miles an hour. It's a miracle your friend has lived this long. Talk to him, he doesn't have much time. He's been calling for you. He's a fighter, this one."

I stared at the woman for a moment. "You mean he's going to die?" I asked finally.

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you be trying to save him, or something?" I asked in disbelief. Well, shouldn't they?

"Mr. Reed, if there was anything that could be done, we'd be doing it," she trailed off. "Please, he doesn't have much time, and he's been asking for you."

Without answering, I turned and walked over to Portman. On closer look, I could tell what the nurse meant when she said nothing could be done. The bruises and the blood and what was left of his face and head…ignoring my revulsion, fighting the urge to throw up, and holding back tears, I decided I'd better speak to him.

"Hey buddy," I said gently. I noticed he was hooked up to a machine measuring his vital signs, such as heartbeat. It had the green spike lines, and it beeped, just like on TV.

"Fulton Reed," he half demanded. He was close to incoherent. "I want to talk to Fulton."

"Port, buddy, it's me," I said.

His eyes focused on me, and he half-smiled. He was coherent, if he focused hard enough. "Fult, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry I'm bailing on you like this…"

"You're going to be fine," I said, with the most convincing voice I could muster.

"No, I'm not, I heard what all the doctors said," he breathed. His breathing was very uneven.

"Doctors are wrong sometimes," I said, trying to be supportive. "Don't worry, man, you'll get out of here. You will. You'll get better, and everything will be just like it always was."

I still don't know if I was trying to convince him or myself of that. All I remember thinking was that the _beep beep beep_ of the machine monitoring his vital signs was annoying.

"I don't think that's going to happen," he rasped. He held up his hand, the way he did on the ice when we'd slap hands after a goal, or a big hit. I went to slap his hand, and pull my hand away like we always did, but he held on to it instead. "Listen, you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"You have to go ahead with the plans we had to open do something big," he choked out.

"I will," I promised him.

"Thanks Fult."

_Beep beep beep_ went the machine.

"Don't mention it," I said, and he squeezed my hand a bit. The side of his face that was relatively undamaged was very pale.

"Tell my parents I love them. Pet my dog for me. Hug the Ducks. Tell Julie I love her."

"I will, I'll do all that," I promised again.

_Beep beep beep._

"Fult, I'm scared," he admitted through his uneven breathing. For as long I could remember, Portman was never afraid of anything. He must have been terrified.

"I know you are, buddy, I know, but don't worry, it's going to be all right," I said in a very strained voice.

_Beep beep beep_.

"Fult, we're best buddies, right?" he wheezed.

"Yeah, of course we are," I said confidently. "We're best friends. We might as well be brothers, man."

_Beep beep beep._

"Brothers, yeah…" he trailed off and his eyes went out of focus. I was losing him, but his eyes refocused. He said something, but I couldn't hear him, so I bent close so he could say it again. "Best buddies 'til the end?" he whispered. He was still hanging on to my hand.

_Beep beep beep. _I looked over at the machine monitoring vital signs again. The lines were still spiked. _Beep beep beep_.

" 'Til the bitter end," I replied with certainty, squeezing his hand gently.

He smiled one more time…and then the machine flat-lined.


End file.
